Thorin's Morning After
by kkolmakov
Summary: COMPLETE. FIRST IN THE SERIES. It all started as a little mushy and sexy drabble for Valentine's Day. The first morning after a night with the King Under the Mountain. Days go by but our clueless lovers still cannot sort out their predicament after the first night of passion *No infringement intended*
1. First Morning After

The first sensation you become aware of is that you are warm. Never in your life have you felt so deliciously contented and comfortable, as if soaked in warm heat from a fire. The warmth is balmy, embracing your every limb, enveloping all your curves. It radiates from inside, pools in your chest, curls in a fuzzy ball in your stomach. Your back is snug under covers, and your cheek is resting on a very pleasant pillow, just right, neither silky and slippery, nor harsh and scratchy. All your senses are sated and placid. Your nose, your fingers and toes are hiding under the covers, and you bury your nose deeper. It bumps into hot skin. You open your eyes and jerkily sit up.

There is a Dwarf in your bed, a gorgeous, sleeping, naked Dwarf. Black strands splayed on the pillow, lush thick lashes, prominent straight nose, luscious beard and of course, the lips… His sensually curved, soft lips, that performed the most enticing acts all over your body last night… Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain is in your bed, in a deep postcoital slumber.

Right, last night you bedded Thorin Oakenshield. Right… No, wait, that is not quite accurate of a description of the formidable transgression that you committed. No, the most precise way to put it would be that last night you deflowered Thorin Oakenshield. As in Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, the Heir of Durin, King Under the Mountain Thorin Oakenshield.

You carefully pull a corner of the covers from under his heavy arm, Maiar, look at those muscles, and shield you naked breasts. Shouldn't you be panicking right now and try to scamper, shamefully picking the items of your clothing from the floor? You screw your eyes and see your drawers on the floor. The picture of the Dwarven King pulling them off you with his teeth pops in your head. Right, concentrate!

Sneaking away seems wrong for two reasons. Firstly, it is your room and where would you go? Hide in his room until he decides to vacate your bed? Secondly, you do not really feel that embarrassed. May be a little for some of the most graphic things you were screaming in the throes of passion last night, but in general you feel… jubilant. You had him for the whole night, he was yours, all laughing eyes and greedy palms, hot and glorious.

And thirdly, alright, you forgot to count this one but it is important, you want to stay and have a good look. He is finally immobile, and you will not be caught ogling. And how worthy of extensive ogling this dazzling Dwarf is! You tilt your head and peek at his ears. Maiar know why you started with them, but they are adorable! Big and very, very sensitive! The yelp you received from him after biting them was priceless. You recollect swirling your tongue caressing the burning lobe and the feral growls rumbling in his chest in response. You also recollect grabbing them while he was sucking on your neck and pushing his head down towards your breasts. What? They wanted attention too. And quick!

You look at the beard and your breasts, stomach and inner thighs grumble. It is called stubble burn, get over yourselves! Your skin is probably angry red from his ministrations, some of your parts have indeed received slightly more attention than others. But was it not worth it? It was, all your parts agree. Your eyes follow the neckline of the neckline of the beard and you lick your lips.

This strong neck, this exquisite throat, with masculine sinews and veins, moving and bulging while supporting his weight on his arms he was mercilessly pumping into you. Right, moving on! You cautiously stretch your arm and touch the strands of ebony and silver on your pillow. One of the slick braids with a heavy bead at its end is heavenly soft and smooth under the tips of your fingers. These two thick black plaits on the sides of his face have previously deprived you of many hours of sleep, your insatiable carnal fever for him yielding increasingly lecherous and physically challenging scenarios involving among many other indecent things catching the beads with your mouth while you are arching and moaning underneath him. Firstly, it is probably impossible to moan and bite at the same time. Secondly, this fantasy can be written off as fulfilled. The clank of the bead on your teeth was as sensual as you always imagined.

You edge a bit closer and contemplate whether he will wake up if you put your hand on his chest. Probably, being an excellent scout and such. The chest proved to be your favourite part last night, the hot hard muscles and the tantalizing coarseness of the thick hair covering his torso. You crave to train your fingers through it again but fear to wake him up. On the other hand, he is probably exhausted, all the hard work he did last night, poor darling. Hard, hard work… You peek but his lower half is concealed with rumpled sheets and covers. And yet again, you did have a good look yesterday. Maiar help you, you are ruined for any other.

You cease your wanton ogling and shift your eye back to his face. It is relaxed and content, lips slightly open, his brow smooth. You are ruined and it not the size and girth, although Maiar, why noone ever told you? Why those who know are not telling everybody about it? People should be shouting about it on every corner, proclaiming the glorious cynosure that is a Dwarven phallus and sing praise to Mahal, the Maker, the Father of Dwarves, the Smith of the Powers!

According to the Dwarves, Mahal has given them the prowess and the endurance to resist fire and the evil that was Morgoth. Apparently, endless fervor between the sheets and seemingly insatiable vigour is just a pleasant corollary. Every muscle in your body aches deliciously, your inner walls sore beyond description, you are pretty sure you have lost your voice from all the crying out in ecstasy. Let us be honest, your sixth climax might have been accidental. But again, the seventh was not.

You sign and concede, you are ruined. Ruined by his passion, his intensity, his desire to please, to give and to share the pleasure, his excitement and his tenderness. For his first night he proved to be curious, creative and inspired, sometimes impatient, sometime mischievous, showing timely gentleness or ferocity, and Maiar, how will you survive if that is the only time?

You feel suddenly sad, your bliss and ravishment withering and you are overcome with an urge to cover your nakedness. You carefully move to the edge of the bed, distractedly noting the soreness of your insides, and you pick up your undergarments. You slip into the drawers and inspect the undertunic. You were right last night when you thought you heard the sound of fabric tearing. It is ruined. The delicate gauzy garment is now just a scraping, and you feel like crying. Then you give yourself a mental slap. Are you really going to cry over comparing yourself to an item of clothing?

You throw it aside and pick up your dress. The lacing is open and you cannot seem to find the string that was looped through the front. You search the room with your eyes and then you are staring in the cerulean irises of the King of the Mountain. He is frowning, in a stark contrast to the content relaxed expression in his sleep. "What are you doing?" Well, good morning to your too, Thorin. Who would guess that the King Under the Mountain is a morning grouch?

"I am evaluating the damage," you try to enlighten the mood and dangle the former undertunic on your finger. He smirks from a pleasant memory and then stretches his arm towards you, "Come back to bed." His voice is positively unlawful, all velvet and molasses, low and sensual but you are a healer and know that the addiction to stimulating potions should be nipped in the bud. You pull the covers higher and clear your throat.

"My Lord, I believe it would be unwise. I have only paid for the room till morning." "Then we should move to mine," his hand is still in the air and you see two ways out of this situation. First, you cowardly backtrack, covering your round parts, which is ridiculous since he has seen, kissed, licked and sucked all of them thoroughly last night, get dressed, thank him for a wonderful night and then jump into River Running to your pathetic demise. Door number two, you put your hand in his calloused palm and let him pull you into the whirlpool that your emotional life will turn into if you fall for the King Under the Mountain. Whom are you kidding, you have fallen long time ago! Honesty is the best policy, and you honestly tell yourself the diagnosis: you are hopelessly in love with Thorin Oakenshield.

You lick your lips and go for door number three. You pounce at him, straddle him and kiss him, biting his delicious lower lip and grabbing his magnificent ears. He growls and topples you over back into the rumpled sheets. Damn with it all, he is good!


	2. Same Day Evening

"I think I deflowered the wrong Dwarf," you are drunk, and that makes you feel very, very sorry for yourself. You are sitting with your elbows on the tavern table, one hand supporting your rather heavy head, another one touching your neck. You cannot stop. The spot on your throat is sensitive, bearing the teeth marks of the King Under the Mountain. Thea flops in front of you with a plate and a mug and inspects you attentively. She is a winegirl, meaning she travels with merchants, works in the canteen, keeps track of supplies and occasionally does laundry. Thea hates laundry and cannot sew a button, but she is vivacious, always cheerful and dotes on the merchants, so she is one of the most popular winegirls. She also has no morality. She chooses a new lover every night and forgets about him in the morning. Thea loves her life. You love Thorin Oakenshield.

"You deflowered the wrong Dwarf," she repeats slowly, and you nod lamentingly. "Did you also walk into the wrong room at night?" You shake you head and then pause, "Also?" "Happens to me a lot," she is thoughtfully chewing a piece of cheese. "All doors in these inns are the same, that nasty brown colour. Sometimes it is a gain though." She scrutinizes your face and notices the mark on the neck. "Oh my, you are not joking. You have actually spent a night with a man." "He is not a Man, he is a glorious, magnificent, voluptuous, ambrosial Dwarf." You haughtily take another sip from your mug and start coughing. Thea shakes her head, "I do not know half of these words, but I reckon it means he was a great shag?" You huff in indignation, "He is so much more than this. Was, was more than this," you drop your head on your arms on the table. "Is he dead?" Now you remember why you are good friends with Thea. For her sensitivity. "No, Maiar forbid. He is in perfect health. I examined him myself," you giggle at your own joke.

"How much ale have you had?" "Three mugs. And no remarks on my size, thank you very much, I can drink you under the table!" The fact that you cannot put your mug on the table without spilling a third of it does not quite substantiate your previous statement. "Aha," Thea moves it away from you and pushes the plate with bread and cheese towards you. "Eat, you need something in your stomach. For when you get sick later." She is so caring. You take a piece of bread and start chewing, eyes pooling with large drunken tears, corners of your mouth mournfully lowered.

"So what was it like?" Genuine curiosity is playing on her face. Many times Thea would mention that she would "go Dwarf" but so far no luck has befallen her. Other women upon hearing that gasp and leave full of resentment. That is how you became friends. When this conversation happened in front of you, you froze and started listening attentively. You were already harbouring a desperate yearning for a certain Dwarf, obviously keeping it to yourself. Thea did not ask, but you understood each other on the nonverbal level. Yes, it was never done, and yes, races just do not mix, but in Thea's words have you seen those arms and shoulders!

Last night you have seen those and so much more. Saw, touched, kissed, licked, sucked… "Oh Maiar, I'm going to be sick!" You grab your head. "Told you you can't drink." "It's not the ale, it's him! I'm ruined!" She stops chewing and look at you with a sincere concern. "Oh girl, don't tell me you were saving yourself!" "What? No! I'm not a maiden." "Oh," she shrugs. "You sure behave like one most of the time. So ruined as in hurt? Tell me, is it the width or length? Or both?" She is really trying to sympathize but her eyes are burning with excited inquisitive light. "No! As in heartbroken! And yes, I'm very sore," you also experience mixed emotions. You want to cry over the impossibility of being with your beloved, and at the same time you want to shout to everyone who would listen that you have fornicated with the Dwarven King ten times in the last twenty four hours.

Two things catch your attention. Firstly, ten? You count again, this time on your fingers. Thea is following your movements with her eyes that are full of keen interest. Yep, ten. You feel impressed and terrified. That will surely hurt tomorrow. Secondly, did you just thought "the impossibility of being with your beloved" regarding a grumpy, arrogant, stubborn, cantankerous Heir of Durin? You snort but then feel even sadder. Yes, you did. Why did you have to sleep with him?

"Why did I have to sleep with him?" You lift your mournful eyes at Thea. "Because the chance was there?" "No, not sleep sleep, but sleep sleep," you pause and consider what you just said. "I slept with him, in the same bed, after..." You make vague gestures. Thea lifts a brow. "And he is so warm, and affectionate, and his chest was so… And he was tender, and then in the morning we… Again… and then again two more times… And I love him and we can never have babies and he probably thinks I'm a trollop..." You drop your head on the table with a dull thud.

"You love him?" Interestingly enough, Thea did not go after the piece of information regarding "and then two more times." You keep your head down, too embarrassed to lift your face, and whimper. "Does he love you back?" You whimper again, this time you feel the real tears coming. You sniff and let them roll. "Of course not, he is a Dwarf. They don't love Atani." "They also do not bed them, and this one did. And isn't it an equivalent of a betrothal for them?" You jerk your head up. "What?" "You didn't know? That's why I still haven't gotten any of the Dwarven swording," she wiggles her brows suggestively. "They only do it with their wives. They bond for life."

You are violently vomiting in the back alley, with Thea holding your braids and soothingly rubbing your back. "It's alright, girl, let it out." You shakily straighten up and rinse your mouth with the water from the mug she is considerately holding out to you. "I'm in trouble, Thea." "Oh Maiar, you didn't take the tonic." You momentarily panic, but then remember that you did. "Of course I did. I am a midwife! But then again, noone has ever heard of a half-Dwarven, half-Atan baby." "Noone has ever heard of Dwarf in love with a girl from Men, and here you are." You lean back at the wall and close your eyes. How did you end up in this mess?

"Where is he now?" "I don't know. I sneaked out when he fell asleep." "Last night?" "Around noon," you avoid her stare. "Wren, you harlot, did you actually bed a man during daylight? Not in the dark, all solemn and demure, but actually with the sun shining when everything is right there to see." She is laughing. A week ago one of the winegirls was complaining that her husband "forgets" to blow a candle before performing his marital duties. "Everything is right there to see," she cried out in indignation. Thea couldn't stop laughing for half an hour.

You remember thinking if you ever get a chance, if ever the impossible happens and the stars grant you one time with him, you want to see everything. To touch, to kiss and to stroke, so that every little detail is etched in your memory.

"We started last night around sunset," you are allowed to feel a little proud of yourself. "You are a trollop, Wren! And I mean it as a compliment!" She hugs your shoulders and you walk side by side to an old bench under an oak tree. You sit down and lift you face up, looking at the leaves trembling in the twilight. The trunk of the tree is thick and rough, and your heart clenches. You start crying, silently and desperately.

Thea wraps her arm around your shoulders tighter and murmurs, "It's all right, girl. Even if it isn't now, it will be." But you shake your head. The pleasant haze of inebriation is gone, and the hopelessness of your situation crushes you. "What did you mean when you said you bedded the wrong Dwarf by the way?" You sigh, "Some other Dwarf, there still might have been hope. If he desired me the way I desire him, we would leave and just live the way we wanted. But not him. He has his duty and his responsibilities." "Well," Thea smiles to you, and you feel grateful to your friend, she is really trying to comfort you, "May be he can go to his King and beg for the permission to be with you, you know?" You sob violently and hide your face into her shoulder. She lets you cry, silently stroking your hair. What else is there to do?


	3. Next Morning

You wake up with a horde of Orcs marching and occasionally breaking into clumsy dancing in your head. They also seem to be singing, since you hear a screeching noise and ringing in your ears. The war ended five months ago, and now you wish you had died in it. You open one eye and survey your surrounding. You are in Thea's bed, in her room in the inn mostly occupied by winegirls. You rent your room in a different one, but you are never never going back there. Even if you have to replace all your belongings. Then you remember that your healer's sack is still there, and you drop your head back on the pillow.

Thea sashays into the room, sensually swirling her hips and snapping her fingers following a tune in her head. Judging by half-lidded eyes and whishing of her glorious strands, the tune is a mating call of some exotic bird. "Rise and shine," she throws a towel into your face. "Time to face the music and dance." She thrusts her hip sideways, her skirts flowing spectacularly. You cringe at the thought of any activity that involves moving. "Can I go back to sleep?"

She looks at your sceptically. "You could. But is it how you want your Dwarf to see you?" You never were so scared in your life. "What?!" "Well," she sits on the bed and looks at your pitifully, "Don't think he will easily forget what happened last night. Him being an innocent flower whose purity you snatched, and all that. So what do you think he is going to do next? Since you ran like a chicken that you are and didn't have the talk." She makes a disgusted face at the thought of the exchanges usually transpiring between lovers afterwards. Thea prefers a quick kiss to a cheek as a farewell in the morning.

You hide under the blanket and hope that it will all go away. Thea, the throbbing pain in your head, the last night, the ache in all your extremities… You try moving your legs and yelp. Sore does not cover it. You moan. Thea pulls the blanket from your head. "Well, aren't you a spring flower?" What did she expect, after a night of wild dalliances, half a day of drinking, and then throwing up and crying until you had no water left in your body? She tut-tuts and pulls the blanket off you completely.

"Wren, you dirty magnificent trollop," her voice is full of shock and admiration. You look down at what she is referring to. There is a teeth mark on your left calf and your knees are positively purple. With your pale skin you bruise easily, one little bump into a chair leg leaves you looking like a victim of an assault. Good thing your bum is covered with the borrowed nightgown. You are certain one can easily distinguish ten fingers of the King Under the Mountain imprinted onto your hips. That would be at least twenty angry purple circles, if the memory serves you right. You can recall two occasion when thrusting into you from behind, he dug his large palms in your buttocks. And his teeth later. His even, white teeth, gleaming in the dim light of your room in an affectioned smile, bared in a feral snarl, sunk into his bottom lip in a mischievous smirk while his deft fingers are pulling out the string of your tunic's lacing… Maiar, make my death swift!

Thea is shaking her head. "I know that kind of bruises," she points at your knees and a heady blush pools at your cheeks and neck. Thea is laughing. "I always throw a pillow on the floor for…" She smirks at you, and you close your eyes in mortification. "What was that fancy word you told me?" You are shaking your head and try to hide in the pillow. "Common, Wren. You obviously did it. You can say it." You are laughing too, almost against your will. "Fellacio," you breath out into the pilow. "Common, Wren, I cannot hear you." "Fellacio," you yell, and you both roar with laughter. "I performed a fallacio on a Dwarf!" Twice. And damn, you enjoyed it!

"I am so proud of you, Wren," she sits near you on the bed. You throw the pillow into her head. "Now get up, start making yourself presentable and tell me all the details." "I don't want to, I want to stay here forever," you really do, "Maybe the world can go on without me, can it?" "How long do you think it will take him to find you?" You look at her askance. "Why would he be looking for me?" "Wren, for a smart girl you sure are slow. Or is it the post-shag dimness? Did he…?" You jump up and press your palm over her mouth. You can still hear the muffled words "brains" and "out".

She shakes your hand off and furrows her brows at you with a mock stern expression. "Pull yourself together, girl. You made a mess and now you have to clean it up. You slept with a Dwarf, and now you have to face the consequences." Her face becomes serious. "I don't know how exactly it works for them, but if it is indeed a marriage proposal type of deal, he is right now agonizing over it. He can't actually marry you, but then again, he gave up his virtue to you," she shakes her head in disbelief. "You have responsibilities now, Wren. It's like picking up a stray cat." The ridiculousness of comparing the Lord of Silver Fountains, the King of Carven Stone, Thorin Oakenshield with a stray cat makes you snort. "I know you, Wren. You cry over a mouse snapped in a trap. Right now you feel responsible for what you did to him. You seduced a free wild animal with your carnal allure, and now you have to decide what you want from your new pet."

What do you indeed? You want him, all of him, all the time, but he is going back to the Lonely Mountain, now that the war is over. He will go back there, proudly sit on his throne and will probably need to marry an honorable noble Dwarven maiden. And quickly whip up little Dwarven babies, since the Kingdom needs an heir. Little babies, with his dark curls, surprisingly soft line of curved lips, and adorable sticking out ears... Maybe Thea is wrong, and it is not such a big deal for them.

He could probably lie too. It is not like that Dwarven maiden can check. He can counterfeit a pathetic, stammering performance of a virgin. Especially since there was nothing pathetic or stammering in his actions last night. No hesitation, just curiosity and gleeful exploration. Age and life experience help. Self-assurance of a King apparently does too.

He is going back, and you tell yourself that you knew it all from the start. You knew it when you were leading him by his hand up those stairs to your room, when you closed and locked the door behind you, when you stepped forward and started unfastening the clasps on his black velvet vest. You knew it, and you threw all these thoughts aside and plunged into the blazing fire that is Thorin Oakenshield. You knew it is a one-time chance and you took it. So shut up and face the music, as Thea said.

You get up and take the towel Thea threw to you. "Right," you tell yourself you are a proud woman of Men and a distinguished healer. "I am taking a bath, getting dressed and I am going to face him." "Good girl. What are you going to say?" "I do not know." You wrap Thea's robe around you, it reaches the floor and the halves can almost meet again on your back. Especially in the chest area, not much to be proud here about.

Thea jumps up and follows you into the common bathing room. "I'm going with you. I want the details, Wren. All of them!"


	4. After Another Night

You are staring at the ceiling. The morning sunlight is slowly overtaking your room. You are lying on the very edge of your bed and are busy executing mental self-flogging.

Stupid, stupid Wren. In the last few days you performed so many acts that deserve only one reaction to them. And that reaction is a big fat "why in the name of all Maiar?!". Why did you run without talking to him? Why did you drink? This one is especially irrational since a few sips of wine make you ridiculously affectionate and chatty, and two goblets give you a splitting headache and a deep sense of misery. As if you needed any encouragement in this area. Why did you hide in Thea's room and haven't returned to the inn? Why after finding his room vacated you went back to the infirmary and spend the day attending to his wounded soldiers? There are only a few Dwarves left in the infirmary, most either healed, or well enough to return to Erebor. Why did you spend the day talking to them about the wonderful, rigidly honoured traditions of the Dwarven marriage and the respect and loyalty they feel towards their beloved King? You really could have found a different person to discuss. You especially enjoyed when some would end their praise for their magnificent leader with the words "May Mahal give him strong sons and heirs to the throne of Durin".

Why, when in the evening you came back to your inn, did you not listen to what you considered your maudlin side and went to the same bed where you spent all these glorious hours in the arms of the King Under the Mountain instead of renting another room? Why didn't you at least ask for your sheets to be changed, you brainless clot?!

You spent the night hiding from the omnipresent, maddening smell of his skin, fresh and spicy, on your sheets and pillows. In the middle of the night you gave up and sat by the window, hunched on a hard chair, staring in the dark sky, but it did not help much. You felt like his flavour had soaked into your skin, lungs, the pulps of your fingers, your lips.

Couple hours later you gave up and returned to bed. You were lying on the very edge and imagining how much better you would have felt now if instead of cowering you stayed and talked to him. Given, you would still be lying in this very bed alone, but at least you would not feel like a large piece was ripped out of your chest. You could have been breathing easier now, sharp pain not clawing behind your ribs. You would have kept your honour and dignity. You would have thanked him and explained that by acting so licentiously you only wanted to express your admiration for him. You snort when you image that, but in your fantasy you keep a straight face and tell him that you are not a loose woman and that you will treasure the memory of this night. And lastly, you assure the King that you understand that his duty now is to come back to Erebor and take his place on the throne. Then you would have bid him a gracious farewell and left.

And then you would have drunk a barrel of ale and possibly died from that, but you would not feel right now as if there was some impossible scenario in which your heart was not quashed like an apple under a wheel of a cart. Because there is none. But you want to hear it from him. One last time you want to look in the impossible blue eyes and hear him say it. Yes, he enjoyed every moment of it, you bet he did, gorgeous libidinous creature, and he will harbour this secret in his proud Dwarven heart til the day he dies. Maybe, you want him to look sad and even tears could pool in his eyes. He would press his hand to his frantically beating heart and whisper, if only you were a Dwarf, he would ignore your common birth and… Then he would choke on his own words and clench his strong, well-defined jaw. You would bite your lip, but will your tears from rolling down your cheeks. You both would be devastated but feel that you are acting dutifully.

Your door flies open obviously from a fist being smashed in it, and he storms into your bedroom. He grabs your arms and drags you out of your bed. "You will never do that again," he is yelling into your face, his features contorted in anger, black brows drawn together, nostrils flaring. "Never again, do you hear me?"

The sudden change in the surroundings as well as the stark contrast between the Thorin in your head and the yelling enraged Dwarf in your bedroom turn your brain into a plateful of scrambled eggs. Your mouth ungracefully falls open and you stare in his blazing eyes. "You are not to make such decisions on your own, am I making myself clear?" You finally master some will in your muscles and blink. He pushes you away with what looks suspiciously like disgust on his face and steps away.

"Why aren't you in Erebor?" you are so stunned that you forget "my Lord". "I was," he is still panting and his chest is heaving. Oh, the delectable chest… Really? Now? Thea is right, you are a harlot. "I was on my way but half way there I turned around. You owe me an explanation, honourable healer," his smirk is venomous. Right, this is the opportune moment for your well-prepared speech about duty, honour, treasuring memories, and cherishing this night in your heart till the day you die. A pitiful "Um..." escapes your lips and then you halt, avoiding his relentless stare.

"Was my behaviour insulting in any way, honourable healer?" "No!" Great, that is indisputably a squeak. "Were my advances not welcome?" What now? You distinctly remember doing all advancing. "They were," you mumble, momentarily distracted by the memories of the delicious surprise on his face when you placed your hand on the silver buckle on his waist. "Was my lovemaking not to your liking, honourable healer?" His tone is increasingly sarcastic. Oh, enough with the respectable monikers! If he thinks that you did not understand the appellations for you he came up with between the sheets, he is cruelly mistaken. When your obsession with him had reached a certain level, you actually made an effort and learnt enough Khuzdul to understand when your breasts are called treasures of all treasures. Also knowing that Dwarves call the Falgeirr's Cave Ghar-bayur, which means "the hidden alcove" you can assumed what exactly he was murmuring sinking his fingers in your dripping folds. It might be a secret language, but with enough determination one can achieve astonishing results.

You are getting increasingly irritated. Not speaking your mind and forcing proper behaviour out of yourself is not quite in your character. Nonetheless, you demurely cast your eyes to the floor, "You know it was, my Lord". Internally you are grinding your teeth. Is that what you came back for, you pompous, arrogant, self-absorbed, supercilious ass? For praise of your prowess between the sheets?!

"Then why did you run, my haban?" His voice is suddenly soft, he lifts your chin with his index finger. Your eyes widen. Can he be any more changeable? Smashing doors, yelling, snarky questions, and all of a sudden tender murmurs! What is going on in this big head of his? You are confused, and even more so because his sensational cerulean eyes are boring into your. And then again, his lips are so close too, and Maiar, he smells nice! All forest air, smoke, leather and the intoxicating smell of his skin that has been torturing you through last night! All you want is to purr and curl into him, wide, warm and hard. You are hopeless!

Shivers of hunger for him run through your body. Just one more time, one kiss, one taste, your craving is whispering, every muscle in your body strained, yearning for him. You have to press your arms into your sides not to leap and wrap them around his strong neck. Your skin is tingling, you can almost feel what it will feel like. The fur adorning his cloak, the leather of the vest, the velvet of the collar sticking out under the chainmail. You can so easily slide your hands under that collar and press your fingers into the scorching skin of his clavicles. Before that night your touches were scarce and accidental, but the heat radiating from his skin has been driving you to sensual frenzy for months now.

And then the sudden realization of who is standing in front of you runs over you, and you remember that day when your brothers thought it would be fun to throw you into the still icy waters of the harbour. They picked you up by legs and arms and, after swinging you couple times, they flung you into the terrifying blackness under the docks. The blinding pain, white and overwhelming, your sudden inability to move your limbs, and the shattering cold that pierced and paralyzed you, and you sank, eyes wide open and a silent scream bursting out of your lungs in bubbles of air…

You feel the same cold in all your bones and step back from him. "Forgive me, my Lord, it was indecorous," he tilts his head in disbelief, taken aback by your sudden distant tone. "I behaved unbecomingly and I beg your forgiveness. But perhaps it was for the best," you step back a little more and lift your chin. His pupils dilate in front of your eyes and the jaw clenches. You meet his stare directly.

There is no resolution, there is no closure. You got what you craved, you got him for a night, you knew his body, his passion, his tenderness. You have no right to ask for or expect more. He is a Dwarf and the Heir of Durin. Nothing will ever transpire out of it. It is unheard of, and what if he is actually here to ensure your silence?

The thought hurts. But then again that would explain a lot. You were so absorbed in your own anguish that you have not even tried to perceive the events from his point of view. He probably sees your night together as a horrible transgression. As secretive and prejudiced Dwarves are against other nations, he is probably embarrassed by his moment of weakness. Sickly, pale, no beard, you probably only managed to seduce him because of his innocence.

Oh Maiar, you are a vile creature! You need to atone for your crimes. You need to let him know you do not ask anything from him and noone will ever know about it. Well, except Thea. But you did not give her the name and she was mostly interested in the lecherous details. She shook them all out of you, it took several hours. The longest bath in your life.

His eyes fixed on you, he snarls, "For the best?! Are you mad, woman?"


	5. Same Morning

Never in your life you allowed anyone call you "woman". Being reduced to your gender is offensive and diminishes the importance of your skills, knowledge and personality. Which is what you are planning to haughtily clarify to the infuriating, cantankerous, overbearing Dwarf, when he starts yelling.

"Do not dare do this to me again, woman! I have had enough of your cunning ways. You are seemingly burning one moment, voluntarily surrendering your body to me. Next morning you are intend to kick me out of your room. Then you are all willing again, and then you disappear. If you reject me, say it straight to my face. Dwarves do not need to be asked to leave twice, honorable healer," by the end of his speech he is jeering through his teeth. "I already left once, I will not return again."

You are gaping. Your brain froze somewhere between "reject" and "straight to my face". What in the name of Yavanna, the Giver of Fruits…? You mind is blank, and he is fuming with increasing intensity. His fists are clenched, and you feel that a more physical outburst is coming. You just realized that you made a ferocious, war-hardened, aggressive Dwarf very very angry. And you are very very alarmed.

"I did not reject you, my Lord." If anything, you have received him in every possible way. Probably not the right time and person for your puns, Wren.

"Leaving me asleep in an empty bed was not a rejection?" He scoffs. "Or is it your usual way of treating your lovers in the morning, honorable healer?" That is it, that did it. You feel your temper rising, and there is nothing that can stop it now. Brace yourself, Thorin, son of Thrain!

"I would not know, since I have never had any!" You are yelling too. Big mistake. Dwarves do not react well to hostile behaviour. "Now you are adding deceit to your wrongdoings, woman! You did not make it a secret the other night that you have known a man already!" "One, and it was different!" "Was it?! Did you actually take a moment to dismiss him in spoken words, or did you have your fill and left just like the other night?" "It was different because it did not mean anything!" You bite your tongue and cringe. Well done, Wren.

"And what did our night mean to you, honourable healer?" His tone is cautious, and you lift your eyes at him hesitatingly. Oh, for the love of Valar, what is the worst that can happen? "I have wished for it to happen for a long time. And I am glad it did." "How long?" He gets momentarily distracted from your heated exchange by the new piece of information. You feel the violent blush blooming on your cheeks. Damn your pale skin! "For a while," you are averting your eyes. He has the nerve to smirk smugly. "A moon?" You shift on your feet. "Two?" His tone is almost playful. Is that what he is like when he is not reticent and apprehensive? "It is of no consequence," even your ears are burning now, "what matters is that I only wished for you to know of my desire. I did not intend any offense or vexation for you, my Lord." In simple terms, you wanted to ravish him and he is not indebted to you in any way. There is the door.

"I have to concede, you did indeed made your desire obvious," his eyes are dark, probably from the especially depraved memories. "What you have not realized is that unlike you I can not take what transpired between us lightly, my lady. Matters of carnal nature are not treated carelessly by Dwarves." Lovely, now he is insinuating that you are wanton. Which is what you thought his opinion of you was from the start, but hearing it from him hurts.

"I do not take them lightly any more than you, my Lord. But I understood our positions from the start. You have nothing to alarm yourself with. I do not expect any accountability from you, my Lord." "You do not expect any accountability from me?" He lifts his brows in disbelief. "Mahal, woman, do you not understand anything? I shared my body and my seed with you. It is not an incident to be ignored." You grimace slightly. That is what it is all about.

"If a possibility of a babe worries you, my Lord, rest assured it is not to be." "Are you not capable of having children?" His voice is terrified. A reactionary, narrow-minded, chauvinistic brute! Obviously, let us assess a woman by her capacity to bear your heirs! "I am capable but there are brews that prevent conceivement." "And you have taken it before coming to me," he sounds appalled. "It is nice to know that some preparation went into our night of passion. And here I am thinking that an insuppressible wave of fervour has overcome us," his tone is acidic.

"I am always taking it, it helps with… other ailments." His eyes widen in terror. "Maiar, do you always suspect the worst? It eases my monthly pains. I do not bear any lovers diseases. I have nowhere to acquire them from."

"I have to admit conceiving a child would be very unfavourable at the moment," you feel like rolling your eyes at his preposterous idea of men deserving to have a say in these matters. "But it would not have mattered in any case. The deed is done." You feel like you are missing something. "I have chosen this path and will not relent. I'm taking you to Erebor with me."

"What?"


	6. Still the Same Morning

A wise woman at this moment would halt, perhaps ask for explanation, some clarification of the terms of the proposition, may be swoon a little. "Taking me?!" You roar out in disdain. "I am not a sack of potatoes, Master Dwarf! Noone takes me anywhere, I go where I choose to." You cross your arms over your chest and jerk your chin up.

He narrows his eyes at you and hisses through his teeth. "I bedded you, you are my ayusith now and will do as I say." Bride?! The walls sway in front of your eyes, but you are so far gone in your contempt that you leave his words just hang in the middle of the room like a ring of pipe-weed smoke. "Bedding me does not grant you any control over my actions, my Lord," you retort scornfully. "And in what quality would you bring me to your Dwarven city? Your concubine? Will you lock me up in one of your dungeons and visit me when the urge occurs?" He jerks away from your words. "Of course not, you are a healer, there is plenty of work for you in the city." "Oh, so that would be a double gain then! Your city gets a healer, and your bed is warmed up at night at your convenience then?!"

"Mahal, woman, I am trying to find a solution favourable for both of us," he is exasperated. "No, my Lord, you are trying to find a solution that would pacify your consciousness for your transgression with a female of Men. You cannot marry me, you cannot leave me for some mysterious Dwarven reasons, and you think you will just acquire me as your property without asking me!"

"Mysterious Dwarven reasons?" He looks like he is going to strangle you. "There is nothing mysterious in my reasons, woman, only an imbecile would not understand my motives." "So, I'm dim now as well? A harlot and a nimwit!" He emits a positively animalistic snarl and grabs your shoulders.

"Why are you so difficult?! I am choosing you as my ayusith and offer you a place beside me in Erebor," and then he makes a grave mistake by continuing, "I am the King Under the Mountain, the Heir of Durin, the Lord of Carven Stone, do you not perceive the offense to my people's traditions and beliefs I am committing by choosing you?!"

"Which one of us is thick then?! You do not even see what is wrong with your manner of proceeding! Do you not think I should have a say in this? What if I do not wish to aggrieve your people and take a place that I have no claim for? I have a life here, I am a respected healer and a midwife! Have you even thought of asking me if I was willing?"

He blanches and recoils. You just overstepped the boundaries and questioned the honour of a Dwarf. Any offense against a woman is the gravest crime for the mountain dwellers. Their females are scarce in numbers, cherished, protected and highly respected. They choose their husbands and many choose none, dedicating their lives to studies and crafts. And you have just insinuated that he is forcing you into an undesired union.

He steps back, and you unconsciously lean in closer, wishing to erase the insult. "Forgive me, my Lord, I did not mean..." "I am fool, am I not?" His eyes are suddenly hollow. "How can I have been so wrong? Agonizing over your disappearance, turning around in the middle of a night, coming here like an enamored youngling," he is seemingly talking to himself, "And you do not even desire me!" "I do!" Your hand flies up and you almost touch the intricate plates of his brigandine. He grabs your fingers painfully and you see sudden fury in his eyes, anguish and heartache splashing in them just a second ago.

"Make up your mind, woman!" He snarls and bares his teeth. Oh Maiar… Smarten up, Wren, you yell internally. You two are obviously speaking different languages. Face it, you are the sane one here, use your extensive knowledge of a Dwarf mindset! Not much to lose anyways.

"I do desire you, my Lord," you meet his eyes directly, your stare open and honest. "I would not have invited you to my bed otherwise. But I also know my place. And being by your side is indeed an offense to your people's heritage and customs." He lowers his eyes but does not let go of your hand. On the opposite, he lessen the pressure and envelops your palm in his warm fingers. Your whole body jolts.

"Let me worry about that, honourable healer," his voice is low and he lift his guarded eyes. Then he smirks and asks pointedly, "Then let me ask you, do you wish to go to Erebor with me and be mine?"

Every cell in your body is roaring "Yes, yes, hundred times yes!", but you know better than listen to your body's compulsions. They are what got you here at the first place. "My Lord, it is not that simple..." "Mahal, woman, are you not capable of giving a direct answer?" He throws your hand aside and smashes his fist into a nearby chair. The top rail of its back cracks and it topples over onto the floor with a loud bang. You momentarily question your sanity. Are you actually considering tying yourself to this barbarian?

And then you pause, are you indeed? You both are standing in the middle of the room staring at the assaulted piece of furniture. You suddenly giggle and realize you sound rather hysterical. "Do you have a habit of breaking furniture when you are displeased, my Lord?" He looks at you, almost embarrassed, and wipes his face with his large palm. "You bring out the worst in me, my lady. I have never met a creature this infuriating before." "Then you have not known that many women." "No, just one." Is that a glint of mischief you see in his eyes?

Suddenly you realize you are barefoot and dressed in a sheer night dress in the middle of your bedroom, with a full armour clad Dwarf in front of you. You shiver and shift your feet. He looks at your toes and suddenly smiling he sheds his cloak and wraps it around your shoulders. His consideration and chivalry dissipate the tension in the room, and you remember why you lost your head over him originally.

His eyes are warm, he is still viewing your feet and you wiggle your toes. One corner of his lips twitched and he glances at you from under a lifted brow. Oh damn with it all! You step ahead and place your palms on his chest. He breathes in sharply, and you suddenly feel bashful. Your cheeks are burning, but the time for cowardice has passed. "I desire you more than anything in this life, my Lord," his eyes fire up, "but I am also my own woman. I cannot be your property," he opens the mouth but you place a finger over his lips, "nor can I be your bride. Whatever you say, it is just not done. Your people will not accept me, and you are your people, my King." You have never called him so, and his eyes widen. "If you desire me, I will go with you to Erebor and will be yours," you can hardly believe the words that come out of your mouth yourself, "but as a healer and my own master, not your azyuyngal." His thick black brows twitch as he hears you speak Khuzdul. "I can not be your mistress locked in a cold stone chamber. I will go to Erebor, attend to your wounded soldiers, and women and children who require my skill, but I will remain free and independant."

He is silent, his face unreadable. The only indication of his agitation is his frantically beating heart under your palm. Your fingers twitch on the rough plates of his armour. He licks his lips and nods. "I accept your conditions, honourable healer." "I have another one." He shakes his head in mirthful disbelief. "Why that does not surprise me? All right, let us hear it." "Leave now and come back for me in three moons. If you are here in ninety days, I will go to Erebor with you."


	7. The Morning Finally Ends

Now it is his turn to gape. "What?" "Come back here in three moons," you quickly count in your head, "on the autumnal equinox. If you still hold the same determination, I will leave Dale with you."

"Are you testing me, honourable healer?" His voice is menacing but he does not move from under your palms, and you are learning to understand that as a sign of his, though slipping, self-control. Maybe it is not all that hopeless, maybe you can manage the headstrong Dwarf.

"No, neither do I doubt you, my Lord," you murmur mollifyingly, "but our affiliation is so new, so raw," you draw aimless wiggles on his chest with a tip of your finger, "when the time comes we both have to be certain." You look at him from under your lashes. His eyes fall on your lips. Oh, so that is how it is, Master Dwarf. To make him listen you have to utilize your womanly charms. Pathetic! It is so beneath you, but in love and war… and that is, as they say, a little of both! You bite your bottom lip. He clears his throat.

"Are you not certain now?" He still sounds indignant, but he is obviously distracted. "Of course I am, my Lord," your hands slip higher and you timidly touch the velvet collar. Your finger lingers, and the moment is tense and perfect. He breathes out and nods. "All right, be it your way. Be ready to leave on the autumnal equinox." You solemnly nod in return.

Your fingers tremble, and you falter at the tipping point. Where do you go from here? Up, to touch the scorching skin, his throat just an inch away from the tip of your finger? You will not stop at that, you body pushing you into the abyss that is the passionate and irresistible Thorin Oakenshield. You will slide your hands around his neck, your fingers then proceeding to the nape, under the luscious waves of his hair. To do so you will have to take a step ahead, the heat radiating from him pulling you in, and from there it is all the inescapable and intoxicating fall, all the way to the rumpled sheets and salacious moans.

You sign and take a step back. You fist your hands on the sides of your body and lift your eyes at him. He is frowning but he is calm. "I will have chambers prepared for you, for residing and for attending to your patients. A small study perhaps." "I am grateful," you omit the respectable moniker, his name teasing your lips. Just say it, say it, your inner voice is tempting you. You have the right now.

Suddenly the realization of what has just transpired dawns on you, and you cannot contain a wide joyful smile. He loves you, in the name of Valar, he is yours! He said yes! He came back because he could not leave without trying to reach you one more time! Oh, you feel like hopping and squeaking. He loves you! Wait… He has not made any sort of declarations, but then again there was a word "enamored" somewhere there… You give him a quick appraising look. He does not look particularly enamored, if anything, he looks peevish.

He picks up your hand and presses his lips to your knuckles. The hot chapped lips are so tempting that you have to brace yourself not to jerk the hand out of his grip. He will misread your gesture, and you will have to clear out yet another misunderstanding. You are pleased as you seem to be getting a knack for avoiding unnecessary dispute. You smile at him and slightly squeeze his fingers.

You unwrap his cloak off your shoulders and hand it to him. Instead of taking it, he makes a large step ahead, trapping your hands and the cloak between your bodies. His hand are cupping your face, and he presses his lips to yours. A searing, roaring fire envelops you, all your senses in frenzy, and you drop the cloak, throw your arms around his neck and kiss him back.

In a matter of seconds one of his hands is clenching your nightdress, another is purposefully sliding down your spine towards your buttocks. You are stroking and scratching the sensitive ears, and a low rumble rolls through his chest. His lips are on your neck, he cups your bum, another hand pulling the collar down, allowing his lips access to your shoulder. You hear your own moan, and momentarily you question whether you want to cease this. Not in the slightest!

You drop your head back, and he starts moving, pushing you towards the bed. Instead, the back of your knees bump into another chair, the victim of the King's assault still on the floor on the other side of the room. You flop on the chair and the King drops on his knees in front of you. You spread your knees and he presses his hard fervent body into you. You grab the silver buckle and jerk it violently, causing the King to chuckle into your neck. You could not care less! His velvet vest pushed down, you are pulling at the brigandine. He leans back from you and tears it off his body. The velvet shirt follows, and with a whimper you finally press your hands into his scorching skin. Your fingers clench and with a happy whine you grab handfuls of the black coarse chesthair. You are biting at his throat, and he is growling. Fabric tears, and his lips and teeth are on your breasts. You spread your legs wider and reach for the strings at the trousers. A second later you wrap your legs around his waist and he pushes into you, raspy sob escaping his lips.

You cry out and arch your back. The height of the chair perfect and the angle ecstatic, you grab his shoulders and he thrusts. The rhythm is forceful, the legs of the chair skidding on the floor, and after a few of his vehement pushes the chair is moving too far from him. He picks you up under your buttocks, and turning on his knees he lowers you on the floor. You wail from a new position, scratching his shoulders and spurring him with your claves. He lifts his upper body above you on his straightened arms and pumps into you. Your climax spreads through your body like forest fire, merciless and exquisite. He is growling from the grip of your inner muscles, and his hips keep on pistoning into you. His own release makes him shout a few words in Khuzdul that you probably would not want your possible children to hear, and he falls on his elbows, crushing you, his strands shielding you from the rest of the world.

You both are breathing heavily, bodies slick with sweat and you start laughing, his tresses tickling your shoulders and breasts. He opens his eyes and stares at you, his own mirth dancing in the blue irises. "What is the cause of your frolics, honourable healer?" He kisses the tip of your nose, and your heart melts from such an unexpected tender caress. "These are going to be very long ninety days, my Lord." And even longer ninety nights.

A/N: The next chapter will be the last one. All right, maybe two more, if I get carried away as usual.


	8. Morning of the Autumnal Equinox

**A/N: I felt since this is the last chapter (well, penultimate, you know me:) and my babies are to reunite after three months of separation, I decided to give it a more poetic, romantic flavour. After having fun for seven chapters, with lighter mood and more contemporary language, I went back to more Tolkien-y choice of words and an overall dreamy mood. And since I am me, the smut is in the next chapter. Maybe two. I have vivid imagination.**

The morning of the autumnal equinox is chilly and crispy. It is still warm during long afternoons in Dale, but the leaves on the trees in the groves around the city are golden and red. The city was rebuilt two years ago, after three years of prosperous and peaceful rule of Bard the Bowman. You arrived in the city four years ago, when the rumours that the city required healers reached Gondor where you served at that time. Curiosity got the best of you, and you travelled to the recovering city by the Lonely Mountain.

When the first rays of the sun touch the floor of your room in the inn, you are sitting at the small desk, parchments and assorted trinkets that accumulated through your years in Dale littering its surface. In the last four years you have found yourself a place in an infirmary, survived three different chief healers, gained a reputation among the women of the city and travelled to the Dwarven Kingdom of Erebor with merchants out of sheer interest in Dwarven culture. You met the King Under the Mountain, lost your heart to him, saved his life, survived a battle with a rogue army of Orcs, became a war hero even for the most xenophobic Dwarves, pined over the King for five moons, attended to his wounded soldiers, became the Khazad Bahinh, the Friend-lady of the Dwarves, took the King's chastity and promised yourself to him if he is to come back from Erebor for you, on the autumnal equinox, after ninety days of being apart.

You try to sort through the dregs on your desk but your thoughts wander. Your bags are packed and stacked in the corner, your healer's sack prepared on the bed and you are dressed in travelling clothes. You do not doubt the word of the King Under the Mountain, but a tiny shard in your heart is icy cold, a horrifying image of the equinox sun setting at the horizon and you, still sitting in this room, cupboards open and empty, all your belongings in trunks and bags and your travelling cloak on a chair by the door. The most impossible tasks will be to change back into a nightdress that you will have to fish out of the bags, crawl under the blankets and the next morning start your life anew.

You do not doubt King Thorin II, son of Thrain, son of Thror. Although sometimes you doubt your sanity. What have you agreed on? You could have chosen an easier man, Valar be your witnesses, you could have. Intolerant, aggressive, impatient, vindictive, dictatorial, he is everything you dislike in men. Being a midwife you dislike men of all species in general. You will have to learn to sooth his temper, negotiate his oppressive will, establish your independence, and most of all you will have to build trust and openness between you two. But then again, you feel you have no choice. He is your fire, your breath, your life.

The closer the equinox, the more apprehensive you have been feeling. The more days and nights passed since you bid goodbye to the Dwarf, the harder it was to remember why you thought giving up your practice and your friends was worth being locked up in the stone walls of the Lonely Mountain, surrounded by bigoted Dwarves and judged on every step. And judged you will be. No noble Dwarven blood running in your veins, no secret knowledge of the culture and customs, too small, too weak, too pale, too little facial hair, the list is endless. For three months you studied Khuzdul, having found a smuggled book in a basket of a street vendour. You have a talent for languages, but Maiar help you, all the throaty, raspy consonants!

The day drags on and you finish your last preparations. The room is bare, after being your home for the last four years. You feel a cold ache clasping your heart and obstructing your breathing, a painful knot wedged between your ribs. You force yourself to eat, drink mint tea and lie down for a bit. You chastise yourself for weakness and nerves but cannot stop shivering.

Soon after noon rain starts. First, in soft pitter patter, then harsher and stronger, the sheets of water lick your window. The storm is raging and lightnings illuminate the horizon. You have a cowardly thought that if he does not come, you will at least be able to blame it on the weather. That will allow you a few days of not quite a heartbreak until the weather clears.

During the past three moons you were slowly forgetting the tenderness in his eyes, the warmth of his voice, the gentle touch of his hand. An affectionate, noble, brave and intelligent man you have known is replaced in your mind by a likeness of the colossal stone statues of the Erebor Kings of the Past you have seen when visiting the Dwarven city. His figure is dark and menacing in your memory, you are dreading his stern character and his unyielding pride. Who will you turn to for support when the people of Erebor ostracize you? Surely, not to the grim-faced and self-assured Dwarf.

The knock at your door is forceful, booming, and your heart jumps into your throat. You dash from your bed to it, but although your room is only five steps wide, you do not reach the door before the banging resumes. You pull it open and get scooped into crushing embrace of the King Under the Mountain. "Mahal, you are here," he growls in your hair, and you laugh at the absurdness of the relief you hear in his voice.

He is drenched, puddles of rainwater immediately pooling under the low hem of his cloak, the black strands wet and heavy, leather of his coat squeaking when he moves. He yanks his gloves off and carelessly throws them on the floor. Then he buried his hands in your hair, grasps the back of your head with large palms and kisses you desperately. You squeak and wrap your arms around his neck.

Your dress is increasingly wet from being pressed into a soaking fur collar of his cloak, and you start shivering from the cold, while your lips and ears are burning from his ministrations. His thumbs are rubbing your cheekbones and the sides of your face, and your knees weaken. Never have you thought that actually possible, but your feel you will collapse any moment. You clench your fingers into the collar and moan.

He is now kissing your neck, feverishly murmuring in Khuzdul. Haban, kurdu, azyungel… My gem, my heart, my love… You whimper and feel silly tears pooling in your eyes. He pushes you away from him and keeping you at the arm's length he is roaming you with his eyes. You smile and he pulls you back in his embrace, chaste and ardent now, his arms tightly wrapped around your shoulders.

You are standing in the middle of the room, wrapped around each other, your hands clasped at his back, when you finally shake off the bliss of his presence and mumble, "Thorin, I am getting wet." He steps back and looks at you. The front of your dress is soaked, and you are certain there is water squelching in your shoe. He guffaws, "Treacherous weather."

You stretch your arm for his cloak and he drags in off his wide body. The coat and the brigandine follow, and you fell suddenly shy. The wet shirt clings to his upper body and you are not cold anymore. He stretches his open hands to you, and you step closer, placing your palms in his. He pulls you closer and peers into your eyes. You feel your cheeks are starting to burn. "How have you been faring, my lady?" "I am well." "You look well," he murmurs and his lips find your mouth. After a few minutes of slow sensual kisses, you finally find your footing in the situation.

Obviously, you are not travelling today. You lean away from him and reply with a mock concern, "I am afraid my health is in danger right now, my Lord. There is great chance for me to catch cold," he looks at you with confusion and worry in his eyes. "My dress is drenched, my Lord, it is not safe." Understanding dawns, and he gives you a never before seen wide smile, all white teeth and crinkles in the corner of his eyes. "Minx," he suddenly picks you and throws over his shoulder. You squeal and start laughing. He gives your bum a gentle smack and carries you to the bed. "No hope to travel in this weather anyways," he murmurs and you hear a buckle on his breeches clank.


	9. Equinox Sun Setting

**A/N: I'm working on a companion piece to this story that will tell how our two clueless lovers dealt with separation for three months in term of "tension release":) It will be a two-piece short drabble, smutty and humourous. Since half of it will be from Thorin's point of view, which I haven't tried writing yet, I'm a bit nervous. But what can be more fun that a thought of the King Under the Mountain "sword training"? :P**

He lowers you onto the bed and presses you into the sheets with his weight. His hot lips are on your throat and clavicles, hands bunching up your skirt, sliding under your buttocks. You push him off slightly and, wrapping your leg around his knees, in a swift maneuver you switch your positions. Then your palms are on his wrists and you place both sets of the hands above his head.

"I want to see you," you say quietly. "Let me see you, Thorin." Your lips caress his name. You see the hesitation in his eyes but then he gives you a small affectionate smile and nods. You would think after so long he would be aggressive and heavy-handed, but his eyes are tender and he concedes to your will. You feel tension leaving his body, and you take a long breath. His lips are slightly open, his heavy arms motionless, relaxed, in an unexpected surrender.

The same small smile is wandering his lips, eyes open wide, face unguarded. You lower your lips towards his, and he lifts his head to meet you in a kiss. It is gentle and unhurried. He is following your pace, your hearts aligning their rhythms. You peer at his face. The impossible cerulean eyes are shining, brows hiked up in humourous glee and curiosity. You slide your hands down, stroking the forearms, the biceps, your fingers slipping under his neck, nails lightly scraping through the thick hair at the nape. You tilt your head and proceed kissing the neck. He drops his head back, turning it slightly, giving you access to the long tendons on the side, asking for caress. You close your lips over the sinews and then give the neck a long lick. He sighs and closes his eyes.

You slide lower, caress the chest, open the tiny velvet wrapped buttons, one by one, slowly enjoying the seemingly accidental touches of your pulps to the blazing skin you uncover. You sit straighter, pull him by the two open sides of the collar and he lift his torso in a fluid movement. He raises his arms in an even more obvious gesture of capitulation. You pull the shirt off and place the palms on the hard muscles of his chest. You give him a gentle shove and he falls back, with a chuckle, hands once again above his head. You smirk and stretch your body over his.

Your mouth explores his pectoral muscles, follows the valley of the black coarse hair in the middle of his chest down to the the abdomen. You bite his stomach and he gasps. You stroke the thick line of hair under the navel with the tips of your fingers and slide them under the waist of his breeches. The belt is unfastened and you pull it out. He raises his hips and the trousers fall on the floor.

He is so beautiful. The magnificent wide body is sprawled on your bed, muscles relaxed, eyes attentively following you. You are fully dressed, the wet front of your traveling frock sticks to your skin, and you straddle his knees. You pull the garment off, and his pupils dilate even more, your breasts peeking through the sheer undertunic. You bought it yesterday, its lacy bodice endlessly impractical. His fingers twitched but he stays still.

You lower your head and give his cock a long slow lick. He groans and his hips buck. You see the abdominal muscles trembling from the effort he puts into restraining himself. You take him into your mouth and lower your head. His wide tip slides deep into your throat, and he groans. "Mahal..." You tighten the muscles of your esophagus, and his fists clench. You slide up and down, caress him with your tongue and then cup his testicles. He moans and grabs your shoulder. You start lowering your head again but he does not let you, pushing you up and off him. "No, don't," his voice is strangled and you release him. "My Lord?" Your own voice sounds indecent, you lick your lips hungrily. He lifts his eyes at you and rasps, "Inside..."

You straddle him and stretch out your hands to him. You grab his fingers and pull him up. He wraps his arms around your middle. You caress the wide shoulders with your palms, trail fingers into the ebony mane. You lovingly look at the silver strands around his face. His eye are hungry, almost begging. He hooks up his fingers at the hem of your undertunic, and in an instant it crumples at the foot of the bed. Then his hot palms cup your buttocks, sliding under the drawers and he looks at your questioningly. You nod and he grabs handfuls of sheer fabric. One strong tug and the scrapings fall on the floor. You push him on the bed again, and he complies.

You straddle him and lower yourself on his shaft. You stretch painfully and take a few moments to breath through the discomfort. He lifts his hands to you, and you intertwine your fingers. Using his arms as support you lift your hips and plunge down. You both moan, and you rise again pushing up from his hands. You land with an obscene sound of flesh slapping flesh. He bares his teeth and tosses his head back. You set the rhythm, squeezing him with your knees. Soon your climax ripples through you, violent waves pulsating through your walls, and you sag down on him. He wraps his arms around you, stroking your back and lets you catch his breath. He lovingly kisses your ear, and you just cannot bear how much tenderness there is in this man.

You lift your face and look in his laughing eyes. He lifts a brow and ask brashly, "My turn?" You guffaw and nod. He picks you up under your arms and takes you off his body. You whine when his thick cock slides out of you. He puts you on the bed on your stomach and you stretch lavishly, your arms in front of you, nails scratching the sheets in a cat-like motion. He lowers his weight on you, kisses your shoulder blades, slips lower, licks the little hollows on your buttocks and you bend your back, hoisting your bum under his caresses. You feel his beard scratching your inner thighs and he spreads your legs. You moan, and he slips a finger in you. He is massaging your entrance and quickly adds the second one. You are writhing rubbing your clit to the sheets. He swiftly removes his fingers and you feel his erection pressing onto your buttocks. You lift your bum, and he slips in your folds with a low groan.

He starts slowly but soon enough his restraint is gone. He is supporting his weight on his arms, pumping his hips into you, each thrust eliciting a cry out of you, your hands grabbing the pillows, clawing at the sheets, on the border of pleasure and pain. He is too long, too wide, too hot, and you are coming the second time. A large palm grabs your hip, and he hoist you up higher. In the carnal frenzy, your orgasm still quivering inside, you bend your back to the aching point, and he growls and suddenly halts his thrusting. One of his hands on the sheets, near your side, supporting his weight, he strokes your back with the other one. "This is the view I would like to see every day from now one," his voice is sinful. "Oh Valar," you breath out and feel the third wave rising. "Move, move," you whine and push your hips back. He snarls and rams his pelvis into you. You wail, and from too much force in his thrust he falls on top of you. He quickly hoists his torso on his elbows, one arm sliding under your breasts, and he bends one leg pushing you to open up wider. His thrusting forceful and deep, he soon loses the rhythm, his movements quickly becoming jerky. You climax again. All you can do is whine and gasp for air, no voice or strength left in you. He spills into you with a growl, or sob, or a bit of both, and stills, his large body trembling.

You close your eyes and listen to the waves of heat and pleasure swirling in your body. For the first time in three moons you feel warm, you feel complete, and your body is finally your own. He rolls on his side pressing you into his chest and stomach, his heavy arms enveloping you. "We should travel at dawn," his voice is raspy but he is obviously recovering quickly. Judging by your previous short but informative interaction with him, you should brace yourself for round two.


	10. Last Morning

**A/N: This is the last chapter, my lovelies! I hope you had at least a miniscule of the fun I had! Wren goes to Erebor, and her following adventures are in the other stories. The next one for an update is "Thorin's Return to Shire."**

**My most heartfelt gratitude to ****Just4Me,****RagdollPrincess**** and ****RedHairedJenna**** for reviews and messages! It is thanks to you three that I actually finished my first multi-chapter piece! Loads of love!**

The morning comes, cold and misty, and you open your eyes in this room for the last time. The drawers are pulled out and bare, your old trunk open in the corner, the desk empty for the first time in years. You screw your eyes and look at the Dwarf sleeping near you. Thick black lashes, peaceful brow, he is breathing deeply and quietly, lips slightly open. You carefully slip from under his arm, his fist clenches the sheets, but he does not wake up.

You throw a dress over your naked body and slip out of the room. Through the empty corridor you sneak to the common bathroom. It is cold, still carrying the smells of the soaps and essences the girls living here used last night. You splash some cold water on your face and have a peek at the balcony, overlooking the backyard. It is empty and you sit on one of the abandoned chairs there, pulling your knees to your chin, hugging your shoulders.

The first song of thrash is cheery, and you take it as a good omen. You cannot see the Lonely Mountain from this part of the city but you know it is there, behind the towers of Dale and white bushy clouds. It is unwavering, unyielding, but now you know that it is not cold. It is stern and staunch, but there is heat and flame inside it, a living beating heart.

You are trembling from cold and lack of sleep, but you are resolute, and you feel that a proper dress and a large breakfast would probably stop the shivers. You just want to stay here for a bit longer, in the silence and obscurity. Never again, as it feels at that moment, you will be alone, unobserved, unattended, disregarded, which you see both as a curse and a privilege.

When the sun rays touch the railings of the balcony you have been sitting on, you return to your room. The King is fully dressed and seemingly nervously pacing the room. You smile to him and step into his arms. The line of his shoulders softens, and he buried his nose in your hair.

You pick up your clothes from the floor, chuckle at yet another pair of undergarments ruined, shove yesterday's wet dress in the trunk and get dressed for the road. Thorin is watching you from the bed, pretending to read a book he pulled out of your trunk at random. The last few things packed, including the book pulled out of the King's hand, his mock advances refused and a few passionate kisses exchanged on the bed, you look around the room and say, "I'm ready to go."

You go down to the common room, quickly finish the breakfast and wait for Master Dwalin with a few other dwarves to arrive from the inn they were staying at. You are also expecting Thea to come to say goodbye. You have visited your other friends in the last few days, said goodbye and shed a few tears over rather extensive amount of ale. You have talked to your patients, passed them to other healers, visited the families you have treated before and said goodbye to those who worked side by side with you in the last four years. There is nothing to do in Dale any more.

An hour passes, outwardly you two are quietly talking over tea and seed cake, in actually you are tickling his calf with your foot and he is trying to keep a straight face, and the Dwarves arrive. You receive ceremonious bows and respectful greetings, and you wonder what they have been told about you. Master Dwalin greets you the last, astonishing you by graciously kissing your knuckles. He bows his head low, "Barazninh?" You smile to him and see a small tinge of warmth in his eyes. It is not a smile, but the feeling is there.

The inn help brings down your trunk and bags, the Dwarves are busy loading them and the supplies for the road on the ponies. You touch the King's sleeve and he leans towards you, his eyes attentive and tender. "My friend Thea is still not here. I have to say goodbye to her." "We have to set out, honourable healer," he retains the moniker in front of others. "The journey is long, and we should not lose time." "I can't leave without saying seeing her!" His temper flares but he tries to compose himself. "Have you told her you are to leave at the dawn?" "Yes, but..." "The sun is high already, you gave her enough time. We are leaving as soon as the ponies are saddled."

At that very moment you realize that the journey ahead of you is indeed very long, and it is not the travel to Erebor. You smile to him graciously and lower your head in an obedient gesture. Although other dwarves are busy with the luggage and supplies, they were throwing side glances at you. they go back to work. You place your hand on his arms folded on his chest and ask in your most lilting tone, "My Lord, how much more time do we have? The view from the top balcony is splendid, perhaps we could have the last look at Dale before we leave." "I am sure we have a moment for that," he loops his arm, and you accept it. You lead him to the balcony leaving the Dwarves to their tasks. You might be wrong but when you pass the ominous tattooed warrior, you can swear you see a mischievous glint in the eyes of Dwalin, son of Fundin. Maybe, he even gives you a wink.

You step out at the balcony and turn to the King. The rage that is splashing in your eyes must be searing since he tenses when he looks into your eyes. "My Lord," your voice is low and clear, "what I am going to tell must be new for you but I want to be perfectly clear. I will not follow your commands if I do not consider them fair and just. At a battle field I will never show you any disobedience, as well as in front of others, but I want you to remember it, and remember it you will, Thorin, son of Thrain," you point your finger at him, "I am not your property. I am giving up my life here to share yours in Erebor, and I will say goodbye to my friend, who loved me and supported me before you even knew I walk this world. Are we clear, my Lord?"

He clenches his teeth, his hands in fists, and you are bracing yourself against an upcoming violent outburst. The temper of the King Under the Mountain is notoriously unruly, and you have seen his rage. And you fear it. But at the same time you are not going to give up your positions. Your heart is aching, leaving your home of four years, your friends, your practice, and you are full of trepidation from what the future is to bring you in the Dwarven Kingdom. Thea is the last friendly face you might see for a while, and you owe her all the time in the world.

You look up at the King, his brows drawn together, the muscles contracting in angry knots on his jaw, and then he blinks, seemingly shaking off the haze of his wrath just a second ago clouding his gaze. He cannot seem to choose a path, either to openly change his opinion and look submissive, or insist on his point of view. But as he obviously starts to suspect, there is no easy way to make you do his will. Dragging you down the stairs will probably produce an opposite result. He sighs and stares at you. You lift your chin and wait for his answer. "You have an hour," he snarls and turns to leave.

"Wren!" Thea's voice is ringing through the inn yard. You lean over the rails, and there she is in all her voluptuous glory, blazing eyes, hazel curls and delectable bosom. You rush by the King, tumble down the stairs and fall into her firm embrace. "I am so sorry", she mumbles. "I could not leave earlier… We just arrived yesterday… The carts got stuck in mud…." "No matter, no matter," you are hugging her tight and feel tears running down your face. "You came! You came to say goodbye to me!" "Of course I did, you silly cow! Not every day your best friend leaves to live a life of splendor and carnal exuberance under the mountain!" You laugh and cry at the same time. "See, I learnt some of your smart words!" She is crying too but a radiant smile is there, under the tears, and you hug her again. "I will write to you," you promise, "and you will come to visit, and then," you whisper in her ear, "we will find you a scrumptious large Dwarf." She guffaws and wiped her tears. "Promise?" "Promise." She nods and looks over your shoulder. You turn your head and see the King Under the Mountain standing near your saddled pony.

The Dwarves keep a respectable distance, allow you your privacy, and the King bestows the winegirl a ceremonious low bow. She gives him an haughty nod and turns back to you. "Good luck, girl! You will need it. That one is a tough cookie. You just had to go for a King," she is shaking her head. You chuckle through tears, "I know. But like in that song you taught me, _None but the brave deserves the fair_." You are laughing now. "That's my girl!" You hug again. You feel your lips tremble again, but she slightly pushes you away from her and towards the small procession standing by. "Go ahead, Wren, Erebor awaits!"


End file.
